The Moo Moo Farm

Kalan slouched over his table, slowly creating his masterpiece with nothing more than parchment, a feather, and a vial of black ink. His mentor, Rathma, stood nearby ready to answer any questions or offer any advice to his student. Their pale skin and dark, dreary clothing told many stories of who they were, even without ever speaking to them. The Necromancers taught the way of The Balance, a belief that all things in existence must stay at an equality. Life and death, good and evil, peace and war must all influence equivalently for harmony to be achieved. Kalan and Rathma worked together with the Great Dragon, Trag'Oul, to begin compelling others in the world to join their cause, and to fight for the Balance. But today, something else was on Kalan's mind.
"Rathma, may I have a moment?"
"Always, Kalan."
"There has been something tearing at my attention lately. Was I the only one left with my powers?" Rathma's answer was given away from his silence, but Kalan waited for a response.
"No, Kalan. You were not. There is. . . another." Rathma's usually neutral expression and demeanor suddenly shifted, if ever so subtly. To Kalan, the shift was so obvious that Rathma might as well have been yelling it. Whatever it was, Rathma did not feel comfortable speaking about it.
"Another? Why hasn't Trag told -" Rathma cut off Kalan mid sentence.
"This was not at the will of the Great Dragon."
"Trag'Oul had nothing to do with it? Then who?" Kalan was growing incredibly anxious. Perhaps all that he had thought to be true was in fact, not. Rathma once again hesitated before speaking.
"It was by the will of your brother, Uldyssian ul-Diomed." Kalan did not know what to think.
"Uldyssian? But how can that possibly - " Rathma cut Kalan off once more.
"I do not know, Kalan. I do not know. Just before his great sacrifice, he had empowered the nephalem spark inside another, as if knowing what would happen. He gave the spark the ability to burn through all eternity, even if the dormant power was outstandingly small. Not even the combined might of the High Heavens and the Burning Hells could extinguish the flame. I have been pondering the reasoning since it happened. I fear I will never know, but my guess is that it was done to give the person the advantage over any mortal threat. To keep them safe for the duration of their life." A silence overtook them as Kalan deciphered what Rathma had just told him.
"Who is the other?" Kalan asked, his voice shaking. He was terrified of what the answer might be.
"I think you know already, Kalan. It is the girl that you call Serenthia."

Chapter 1

Seram was a small and humble village. It always had been and, according to the inhabitants, probably always would be. The last truly extraordinary event that happened was the plague that decimated the town, not to mention much more, but even that was ancient history. Although Cyrus Adler owned most of the farmland around Seram, and his family had done so since anyone can recall, he was just as reserved as the rest of the townsfolk. He was in his later years with a thin white beard. He wore just about the same thing every day; a straw hat, leather shoes, and a white silk shirt under overalls. Along with his farm, his name has been in the family for as long as history was recorded. He had always taken the name for granted. Sure, he had heard the stories of the kind, tactful, and loving man that his ancestor had been and how he tragically died during the plague, but the stories had lost so much meaning over the generations. Besides, he had much more important things to worry about.
Every year a caravan from Kejistan's capital, Kurast, passed through Seram on its way to Caldeum where merchants from all over Kejistan gathered to trade and showcase their goods. While Kurast may have been the capital, it was only so because of the title. Caldeum rivaled Kurast in size, but the trade that took place inside Caldeum's gates was the stuff of legend. Blacksmithing in particular had surged in recent history, but especially in southern Kejistan, as magic was frowned upon and used by few. Rumor had it that groups of men were periodically venturing out in search of the burial site of Bartuc, The Warlord of Blood. Some were bandits, looking to thieve from the legendary grave, and some were corrupt and rogue mages looking to resurrect the infernal tyrant. Rightly or wrongly, the leaders of both Kurast and Caldeum feared that because of their cities' stature, power, and locations, they might be targeted by any demonic armies led by Bartuc, should he return, trying to replicate the ancient battle of Viz-jun. Because of that, much resource had been poured into keeping the recently inflated armies of guards and Viz-jaq'taar, a special force of highly trained mage slayers, well armed. But Seram had very little need for anything of the sort. A small amount of trading was done, but most of the village's profits came from feeding the caravan at the rest stop as well as expunging any sexual tension that had arisen thus far on their journey. Since nothing much else happens around Seram, nearly the entire year is spent preparing for the event. The caravan was expected in a week and this year was meant to be no different than the others.

"HEAD ON IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIN BOYS AND GIIIIIRRRRRRRRRRRRLLLLLLSSSSS!" called Cyrus from the stables. His farming experience was so acute that he needed only his voice to herd his livestock. A cow named Bossy lead the herd of a few dozen into the stables. Bossy was the only cow left from Cyrus's original herd, before he needed to slaughter some of them each year. She was slightly larger than the rest of the herd due to her extra years, but could be recognized by the golden cowbell adorning her neck.
"Good girl. Yup go on in. C'mon now," Cryrus said to each cow as he slapped each of their rumps on the way in. "Now you all get plenty of rest." A tear found its way out of his eye as he observed the cows while walking through the stable to the front doors. Cyrus never was particularly interested in marrying and otherwise had no family in Kejistan, but he was not a lonely man. He got along fine with just his cows. He treated them well and was not happy with the fact that he was forced to kill some of his herd each year, but it was what had to be done to keep not only himself alive, but the rest of Seram as well and he knew that. With a deep sigh he let the thought of the inevitable slaughter be replaced with exciting thoughts about new tools, a few new books, and exotic spices he could buy from the earnings he would gain soon. He was so caught up with next week that he neglected to lock the front stable doors as he walked out.
Before long, the curiosity of the cows led them to graze just outside the stable, in a new and delicious part of the farm that they had never seen. By this time it was dark and Cyrus was asleep. The cows began to roam about and before long they found themselves a mile away from their stable at Seram's graveyard which laid right between Cyrus's farm and the village. They found the well fertilized grass there to be much better than the grass where they grazed and even better than the occasional batch of spoiled vegetables that Cyrus gives them. One grave had particularly thick, bright green grass that seemed to glow even in the dark. Adornments of lilies, lilacs and tulips seemed to grow naturally around it. The cows were immediately drawn to the feast. Pushing and shoving to get a taste of the delicacy, they quickly grazed the site dry. To their surprise, or what would have been their surprise if they were stupid bovine, the grass and flowers continually grew back. The black marble gravestone labeling the site was in remarkable shape. Though it was old enough to be considered an artifact, its brilliantly cut edges were not worn, there was not a single scratch, chip, or mark, and all of the etchings were still legible. It read, "Serenthia ul-Arred. Born 1288. Died 1351." Considering that the current calender held the year at 1009, the stone had to have been thousands of years old. The cows had all had their fill of the seemingly enchanted grass when a growl arose behind them.
They turned to face a small pack of wolves, baring their teeth and drooling at the sight of their surefire meal. As they encroached the herd, Bossy turned and began to run to the only place that she could call home and the rest of the herd followed. They ran remarkably fast for creatures that normally led a sedentary life, giving the wolves a real chase. While able to keep up, the wolves never got a chance to pounce on any lagging cattle as there were not any. Not even an opportunity to harass any cows on the outside of the herd arose. The wolves began to fall behind the herd, but their confidence was boosted when they saw their pray foolishly file into a stable. The wolves followed right behind, amazed that their food had cornered itself. Ready to finally reap the rewards of their harder-than-expected meal, they began to move in until the entire herd was huddled in the back of the stable. Knowing that the cattle were far too timid to fight back, the wolves leapt in for the attack.
Cyrus jumped awake to a terrible, gut-wrenching scream coming from the stables. Horrified that something had happened to his livestock, he ran out to the stables in his pajamas with a pitchfork in hand and threw open the ajar door. He froze in shock. Blood was splattered everywhere. Entrails and bones of unknown origin littered the floor. Taking a few slow steps forward, something fell onto his shoulder. Pulling it off, the object was a piece of intestine, still warm with life. Looking up, he saw the owner of the falling flesh; another destroyed corpse sticking to the ceiling. Speechless, he looked at his cattle who went about their business as if there was no disturbance. Dazed and confused, all Cyrus could think of doing was to take a headcount, making sure that the gore that coated his stable did not belong to one of his cows. To his surprise and relief, every cow was accounted for. Still stunned, he could not find his reason, not to mention that he was tired and it was late. He decided that whatever happened, he would deal with it in the morning. He slowly walked out, turning back just before he got to the door. Shaking his head, he exited and locked the front stable entry. "What in the Hells..." he muttered to himself as he made his way back to his home.

Captain Hammel Ridley led the trade caravan from Kurast. He was an ex-militia man who left combat after learning that fortunes could be made and lost when dealing in the trade economy, but not before gaining strength, skill and prestige as part of Kurast's defenses. He was a handsome but pompous man. Thick black hair grew upon his head and elegantly flowed into an equally hardy beard that lay trim on his broad and strong chin. Gerard, the navigator of the caravan, sat with Captain Ridley in his cabin as a companion, accomplice, and friend. He was an average man, in looks, lifestyle, and strength. He had suspected that part of the reason that Captain Ridley had befriended him was to have someone to compare himself to, but even if that was the case, Gerard would not have paid much mind. He was a lighthearted man with a fantastic sense of humor. "Are we nearly there, Gerard? My stomach shrinks while my loins swell. I need a harlot in one hand and a haunch in my other."
"Ha! Indeed Hammel! Fear not we shall arrive very soon." Gerard looked up at the stars in the night sky. "I gauge that we will be there mid morning tomorrow."
"Fine work, friend, but not soon enough I fear." Gerard's anxiousness should not be mistaken though. With a clear head and full stomach, Gerard loathed Seram. He had no respect for any civilization, however small, that made nearly no progress in thousands of years. He saw no honor in humility and believed that all things should be worked to greatness no matter the cost. Nevertheless, he faked his love for the village while he was there, if for no other reason than to get a woman in his arms more quickly.

Chapter 2

The caravan from Kurast was set to arrive later that day and Cyrus would head to town to get an estimate of the cows needed to feed the travelers. Saddened by the soon-to-be loss of some of his friends, he tried to go about his business as usual. He headed to the stables first thing in the morning with his equipment; a shovel, a bucket, and heavy galoshes. He figured that he would clean up the mess made the night before along with the cow manure that he would normally be picking up. It was a dirty job, but he had gotten used to it long ago. Humming one of his favorite tunes, he made his rounds through the main room and through some of the pens scooping up the waste and guts that was the result of whatever happened last night. Just as he thought that his day could not get any more unusual than it already was, when he stepped into Bossy's pen, he did not find a pile of dung, but rather a nugget of solid gold. "Holy Heavens. . ." Cyrus's lips trembled with disbelief. Surely this could not have come from where he thought it did. He dropped his current task and immediately set out to his home to verify what he had just found. Rushing up the dirt path, he quickly stopped at his tool shed and grabbed a small hammer. Haste was at no loss as he entered his house and dropped the chunk of gold onto the first solid surface he could find, which just so happened to be his desk. Trembling with the hammer over his head, prepared for a swing, his mind raced with what opportunities he would have if the stone was real, and what disappointment he would feel if it shattered. Taking a deep breath and praying that fate had finally smiled on him after all of his years, he closed his eyes and struck true. Peeking through his eyelashes, he found the rock to be fully intact. Tears of joy filled his eyes as he danced around his home, but his excitement was brief as it was interrupted by the sound of trumpets coming from Seram. They meant two things for Cryus: that the caravan had arrived and that the slaughtering process of his cows had begun. Not even riches could overcome the anguish that filled his heart. He shoved the gold into his pocket and began to walk to town.

"Greetings my fine Seram! Many thanks for having us yet again in your fine town!" Captain Ridley was leaning out of his wagon greeting the townsfolk huddled around the caravan as it pulled in. "What a dreadful place, eh Gerard? Hasn't changed a bit since the last time we were here, nor the time before that." With every praising remark he made to the townsfolk, an equally damning one was made to his friend. "Bring me your finest wenches and your thickest grog!" said Captain Ridley to the crowd. "Last year the best they they could muster were hags and piss in a cup," he said back to Gerard. The caravan parked in a half circle formation in the center of town, giving the prime shape for trading to occur. Hopping out of his compartment, Captain Ridley was greeted by the men, women, and children of Seram by handshakes, cheers, and kisses. Putting on his fake smile for political reasons, he was secretly disgusted every time his hands or lips met with anyone else from Seram. He stayed nearby as various merchants, apprentices and guards began to unload and set up the caravan for business, but could not bother with helping with the task as he thought it to be below him. A few wagons carried fine material such as art, clothing and decor, but the majority of them only carried items crafted by a hammer and anvil. Weapon and armor racks were the true valor of the caravan. There was the occasional collector or hopeful fighter in Seram that purchased a small weapon or piece of armor, but most of the people bought things from the other wagons, if they bought anything at all. This did not help Captain Ridley's view of the town, for a well-armed peasant is at least well-armed. "Look at them buying frilly dresses and romance novels, Gerard. Despicable. What if the armies of Kurast decided to invade one day? Seram would fall at just the pitter patter of horses."
"Aye, Hammel. They would indeed. Perhaps next year we should ride in the caravan for that purpose."
"Hah! Not a terrible idea, old friend." Captain Ridley was very much amused at the idea of conquering the town, even if it was only a joke. "I grow sick of smelling the filth in Seram, Gerard. Not even a slab of meat, by means of woman or animal, could convince me to stay here a minute longer. I'll be in my cabin if you need me."
"Aye," Gerard replied understandingly.

"Tyrael, you've been quiet lately. Even for an angel."
"YES, JERED CAIN. YOU ARE VERY PERCEPTIVE. I HAVE BEEN FEELING A STRANGE PRESENSE RECENTLY." Tyrael, the Archangel of Justice, had been marching directly along side the Horadrim for the last few days. A rare occasion, but brief considering the expansive task at hand. Usually Tyrael watched the men from the High Heavens, but a familiar and unsettling aura enshrouded the area that the men had most recently journeyed to. Tyrael wanted to personally make sure that the mages that embarked on perhaps the most important quest since the dawn of time did not fail, so he, for the time being, carried on with the men as their protection.
"Perhaps this means that we are getting very close to Mephisto,” hopefully answered Jered. He was a member of the Horadrim, an order or mages created by Tyrael to hunt down and contain the three Prime Evils that had been corrupting Sanctuary. They had been trekking the vast deserts of Aranoch for five years searching for what they suspected to be the Prime Evil, Mephisto, known to some as the Lord of Hatred. While the band of men were some of the most patient in the world, even they began to grow weary of the hunt. Tyrael did not want to lower the mens' morale any more than it had fallen.
"YES. PERHAPS. . ." Although he gave credence to Jered Cain's proposal, Tyrael knew that it was not Mephisto, nor any force of Hell, that gave him the unmistakable sensation. It had been thousands of years since he last felt it, but to an agent of the High Heavens, that was less than the blink of an eye. If fear was possible for an archangel, Tyrael would have felt it. The Edyrem had returned.

Chapter 3

Cryus approached the caravan. It did not seem to be as large as it had been in the last few years. He was relieved, if only slightly, at the idea that perhaps no more than half a dozen cows needed to be slaughtered to quench the hunger of the travelers. He had never been to involved with the trading, only obtaining a few petty items each year, but amid his small optimism, he entertained the idea of getting some much more elaborate gifts for himself this time with his newly found personal fortune. He looked past the armor and weaponry to a wagon with beautiful pottery and sculptures inside. Right next to it was someone selling fine rugs that could only have come from the deserts of Aranoch. He sensitively brought the gold out from his pocket and eyed it. He had always wanted some fancy adornments for his home."There could be more where this came from. This could only the beginning.But do I really need these items? What if this is the only chance I get to help Seram? I could never live with myself if I used the gold to buy lavish items instead of helping others. But what if there is more? I could never live with myself if I passed up these beautiful artworks." Cyrus was arguing with himself in his mind, perhaps under the spell of the masterwork in front of him, about how to use the gold. "No, no. I mustn’t. I can check the stables again later. If there is more gold, I can use that to buy some things for myself." Reaching a conclusion, he put the gold back in his pocket. Just at that moment, General Ridley glanced out of his cabin window. He immediately threw open the door and angrily approached Cyrus.
"You there! Farmer! Hold your position!" Cyrus was not sure that he was the one that the armored gentleman approaching chest-first was coming towards. "Give back the gold now, farmer, and all will be forgotten." Captain Ridley had an extremely stern tone. There was no mistaking the situation now.
"Gold? Oh, there seems to be a bit of a misunderst -" Cyrus tried to explain, but Captain Ridley did not have time for that.
"A thief and a liar! In my parts, old man, one could be sent to the gallows for such an abominable combination. It is impossible that such a petty farmer could own such an item. It was obviously stolen from one of these wagons. Now, give it here. Do not test my patience any longer." His tone confirmed his threat, but Cyrus lived in a small town, where reason was a viable option. Foolishly of him, he tried one last time at explaining his circumstance.
"Really, I'm not sure you understand, but -" Captain Ridley grabbed for Cyrus's pockets.
"I will have nothing of it! You will return the gold, whether it is by your will or not!" Partially out of reflex, and partially out of frustration, Cyrus pushed Captain Ridley away and punched him square in the jaw. By now, the attention of the traders and the people of Seram was on the argument between Cyrus and Captain Ridley. With his short temper pushed, his revulsion of Seram at its max, and his reputation on the line, Captain Ridley was about the make a mistake.
"Enough of this you filthy peasant. I will show you what men like me do to men like you in the civilized world." Captain Ridley drew his sword. Before Cyrus could react, Captain Ridley's sword was soaked with blood. Cyrus's screams could be heard for miles. Captain Ridley had one last parting sentence for Cyrus, who was now writhing on the ground clenching the wound on his chest, which he said over the nearly deafening cries of the farmer.
"I am a better man than you in every way. Therefore, I shall grant you a swift death." The screaming had stopped. Cyrus's head was now detached from his body. A terrifying silence overtook the entire crowd, tradesmen and not alike.
"Let this be a lesson to the rest of you. Attempt to steal from this caravan, and you shall suffer a similar fate as this miserable soul." Just then, a strange sound came from south of the town. "What's this now?" said Captain Ridley, conceited from his show of power. He peered into the distance. "A stampede of cattle? Guards, be alert. We don't want these things hitting our wagons." Not terribly worried about simple cows, he failed to notice that they were approaching Seram at speeds far greater than normal, and that they were doing it while standing upright. Cryus's cows had heard their master's dying screams from Seram and their Nephalem powers flared up inside them as their rage swelled. Cyrus had always been kind to them. He fed them, cleaned them and picked up after them. They loved Cyrus as much as a cow possibly could and payment was due for his death. Screams erupted throughout Seram as the cows drew closer and people noticed the true abominations that were heading their way. The traders tried in vain to quickly board up their wagons and the townsfolk began to flee to their homes or any other structure that they could make it to. Captain Ridley's attention had finally been caught. "A worthy foe at last! Guards, be prepared to engage." The guards and Captain Ridley formed a small line near the caravan, ready for the encounter. Holding steady, Captain Ridley and the others assumed that the cows would immediately be drawn to them, and which point they would attack. But instead, they went for the caravan. The cattle rammed the wagons with such force that they were launched into the air, spilling their contents. Houses and bodies that made contact with the ballistic wagons were destroyed. The formation of guards was shattered. Humbled by the force of their foe, they knew not what to do but run, even Captain Ridley. "Fall back you fools! Fall back or die!" Captain Ridley shouted at the top of his lungs. The cattle had turned their attention to the rest of the town. Though they could see their master's blood stained on the sword of the armored man, their simple nature was forced to generalize the blame over all things with a human form. People were easily run down by the cattle and impaled by the horns that some adorned. The wood and brick structures that withstood the gnawing of time for years suddenly seemed frail compared to the might of the Nephalem cows. They tore open structures and murdered anyone cowering inside as if children playing with bugs under rocks. With ease, the cows annihilated Seram and its inhabitants. Captain Ridley had managed to hide under the wreckage of one of the wagons. The town grew suddenly silent. The howl of agonizing death had ceased. Only the soft hum of fire was heard. Captain Ridley thought that perhaps he was safe. Letting out a sigh of relief, the wagon sheltering him was suddenly lifted. Three cows stood in front of him with the wagon over their heads. They tossed it aside with little effort. He dared not take his eyes off of them, but he could see that he was in the center of a circle of cattle, their dreadful gaze all fixated on him. A cowbell rang from behind him as a large figure blocked out the sun from Captain Ridley, and he scampered around to face what was surely his doom. Bossy stood over Captain Ridley wielding a massive war axe designed for only the most brutish of warriors. He trembled as he spoke. The sheer strength and omnipotence that emanated from the creature even brought the mighty and grandiose Captain Hammel Ridley to his knees. "Wha... what are you?" Bossy lifted her axe, ready to punish the man directly responsible for her master's death. She answered with an eloquent, yet passionately malicious statement.
"Moo." Bossy then landed the lethal, but awkward blow to the midsection of Captain Ridley. Whether done on purpose, or as a result being swung by a cow, the axe cut through Captain Ridley's torso in a way that would ensure a slow and painful death. Learning from the demonstration, the other cows picked up their own weapons and they went off to graze somewhere in the fields. The echos of Captain Ridley's shrieks of pain continuously provided the sweet melody to the cows' orchestra of vengeance.

Chapter 4

After days of considering every potential outcome of the current situation, Tyrael knew what needed to be done. The new uprising of the Edyrem needed to be stopped, and it needed to be done by himself and himself alone. Man could not be trusted with the task, nor could Hell, but those were not among the concerns of the archangel. If the High Heavens somehow found out about the Edyrem gaining power once more, surely his brothers and sisters of the Angiris Council would likely reconsider the ruling made ages ago, and this time the favor would not lie in the hands of Sanctuary.
"ZOLTUN KULLE." Tyrael boomed. It caught the entire group by surprise, as Tyrael had not spoken in days. They all paused and turned to Zoltun. He was a thin, bald man with a great beard. He was part of the now shattered Ennead mage clan and was a master enchanter. His personal job on the quest was to keep the soulstones safe.
"Yes, Tyrael?" He was not entirely certain of what was going to be asked of him, nor did he entirely trust the angel even after all this time.
"BRING ME ONE OF THE SOULSTONES." Zoltun Kulle approached and pulled the amber stone meant for the entrapment of Baal's essence from a pocket in his robe. Tyrael laid his hand out, and after a moment of hesitation,Zoltun handed him the stone. With seemingly no effort at all, Tyrael broke off a small shard of the stone.
"Tyrael! What in the Hells do you think you are doing? Do you wish for us to fail?" Zoltun was frantic. "You imbued every facet of that stone to be of superior strength and power and you have damaged it!"
"THE THREAT THAT WE ARE NULLIFYING WITH THIS TASK IS DWARFED BY THE THREAT THAT LOOMS OVER YOUR WORLD AT THIS VERY SECOND. THIS SMALL SHARD MAY BE YOUR WORLD'S ONLY SAVIOR." That explanation did not suffice for Zoltun Kulle, but it did for the rest of the group. But knowing that he was in the minority, Zoltun lamentably conceded.
"TAL RASHA." boomed Tyrael. Tal Rasha was a very powerful Vizjeri mage. He donned a red and yellow robe representing the colors of the Vizjeri clan. Long white hair flowed down, nearly to his buttocks. He was the leader of the Horadrim, and a very capable one at that despite the minor arrogance that usually came with his kind. Tal Rasha said nothing to Tyrael but gave him his attention.
"I MUST LEAVE YOU FOR A SHORT WHILE AND I WILL NOT BE ABLE TO WATCH OVER YOUR GROUP. I TRUST THAT THE LEADERSHIP YOU HAVE SHOWN THUS FAR WILL NOT FALTER FOR THE TIME OF MY ABSENSE."
"Yes, Tyrael," said Tal Rasha. Tyrael disappeared in a flash of light. "Well men, onward we search!" The Horadrim continued on through the desert, except for Zoltun, who smouldered and quietly cursed to himself for a moment before following.

In nearly the same instant that he left the Horadrim in the desert, Tyrael was standing in the center of Seram. He looked around and saw no sign of any life; only dead bodies, several destroyed wagons, and burning structures.
"COULD I HAVE BEEN WRONG?" Tyrael said to himself. Inspecting the ground, strange footprints littered the area and the aura of the Edyrem putrefied the area. This had to be the place. The ground began to rumble and a strange humming began coming from over a nearby hill. Tyrael levitated just above the ground to avoid the shaking but no more than that. A small army of biped bovine came running at him wielding giant axes, bardiches, spears, flamberges and other very large weaponry. These beasts reminded Tyrael of the cow, a creature he knew was used by humans on sanctuary for sustenance, but certainly the bloodthirsty horde approaching him could not be the same as the tame animal.
"STOP!" roared Tyrael, his voice echoing several times over from the mountain range to the east. Even the simple cows could not help but obey the order. Even though Tyrael spoke to them, he was somehow communicating with the animals in a way that surpassed words. They halted just before the archangel. "WHICH OF YOU COMMANDS THIS GROUP?" Bossy walked to the front of the crowd. "WHAT DO YOU CALL THIS FARM?" Unfortunately such arcane communication did not work both ways, but Bossy knew that she was called upon and needed to respond.
"Moo moo." she blurted out.
"VERY WELL. INHABITANTS OF THE MOO MOO FARM, YOUR EXISTENCE MUST NOT BE AND YOU ARE TO BE DESTROYED." With only the brief explanation, Tyrael lifted El'druin, the sword of justice, to strike down the tainted cows. However, just as he was about to make contact, Bossy raised her own weapon and blocked Tyrael's blow.
"IMPOSSIBLE!" Tyrael flew back in disbelief. Instead of slicing through the obstacle as if it did not even exist, his sword halted. "UNLESS. . ." Tyrael took a moment to reflect on what just happened. Although these beasts were certainly responsible for the death and destruction around him, Tyrael could still sense a sort of faultless nature radiating from the Nephalem cows before him. El'druin was unable to pierce any form of virtue, making it useless. "YOU CREATURES ARE INNOCENTS. I CANNOT SLAY YOU."
"Moo." Bossy replied in agreement. Or possibly confusion. Or maybe she was just hungry.
"HOWEVER, YOUR EXISTENCE STILL SHALL NOT BE PERMITTED. THERE IS ANOTHER WAY." Tyrael clenched the Worldstone shard in his hand. The next moment, Seram, or as Tyrael called it, The Moo Moo Farm, was wiped off the face of Sanctuary. It was not destroyed but rather shrouded using the powers of the Worldstone. Seram was now contained within the shard itself. Anyone on Sanctuary that attempted to visit the area where Seram once was would only find grassy hills and a single gravestone, which somehow overpowered even the dual efforts of Tyrael and the Worldstone.

Chapter 5

"JERED CAIN."
"Tyrael! Where am I?" Jered suddenly found himself somewhere where he was not just a moment before. These was not the Anarochian dunes where he was with the rest of the Horadrim. He did not feel as if he stood on solid ground, nor did he feel as if he was falling. The blank white engulfing what could only be described as existence fooled the eye. One could not tell if the space that they were standing in was infinitely large, or small. The feeling he got by being there nearly made him keel over in sickness.
"I HAVE BROUGHT YOU TO A REALM NEITHER HERE NOR THERE. WE ARE EVERYWHERE AND NOWHERE SIMULTANEOUSLY. I HAVE BROUGHT YOU HERE SO THAT YOU AND I COULD SPEAK IN TRUE PRIVACY."
"But what of the others?"
"TIME DOES NOT PASS HERE AS IT DOES IN SANCTUARY. YOU WILL BE BACK BEFORE YOUR FRIENDS PERCEIVE EVEN THE SMALLEST MEASUREMENT OF TIME PASSING. I HAVE SEEN YOUR TRUE PERSON AND I JUDGE YOU TO BE THE MOST TRUSTWORTHY OF THE HORADRIM, EVEN MORE SO THAN TAL RASHA. BECAUSE OF THAT, I ENTRUST YOU WITH THIS." Tyrael held out his hand and the amber shard morphed into a charm attached to a necklace. The stone formed into a beautiful ocular shape that not even the best jewelmasters could ever perfect. It was truly the work of a celestial being.
"What is it?" asked Jered as he inspected the necklace that seduced him.
"IT IS THE SHARD THAT WAS TAKEN FROM THE SOULSTONE MEANT TO TRAP THE PRIME EVIL, BAAL'S, ESSENCE."
"But why is it so important?" Jered delicately put on the necklace.
"UNDERSTAND WHEN I SAY THAT YOUR WORLD WOULD BE IN GREAT DANGER BY TELLING YOU. ALL I ASK IS THAT YOU GUARD THIS WITH YOUR LIFE."
"Very well, Tyrael. If that is all you wish, then it shall be done." And just as the sentence was finished, he found himself back amongst the sand. Taken aback from the sudden transition, he paused and fell behind the rest of the group.
"Jered, are you alright?" Called Tal Rasha from ahead of him. After another moment of hesitation, Jered finally replied.
"Yes, Tal Rasha. I just needed to catch my breath for a moment. Let us press on."
"I AGREE JERED CAIN. I FEEL MEPHISTO NEARBY AND ESTIMATE THAT HE WILL BE IN YOUR GRASP IN A FEW WEEKS TIME. INDEED, PRESS ON BRAVE WARRIORS OF THE LIGHT," Tyrael said from the back of the group. Even though Tyrael had been occasionally appearing near them for five years, none of the men ever quite got used to his ability to move as he did. With Tyrael's encouraging words, a new confidence flowed through the Horadrim as their first milestone was nearly in their grasp.

Epilogue

"Heaven help us!" Deckard Cain screamed out. Demons flowed out from the Tristram Cathedral and over the bodies of the guard force that lasted no more than a minute against the power of Hell. Even now the bodies of those once defending were being risen to boost the demonic army. With the defeat of Diablo, the Lord of Terror just weeks before the re-invasion of Tristram, security had finally been restored and those who remained alive felt safe. Unfortunately, not more than the night before had the noble hero who defeated not only the legions of Hell, but Diablo himself left town. Deckard tried to run, but he was an old man. He didn't hobble more than a few feet before falling to the ground. Sure that he was going to die, he ripped off the necklace that he had around his neck and threw it as far away as possible. He did not know what it was or what it did, but it had been passed down his family since his ancestor Jered Cain obtained it from an angel and he knew that whatever it was, it was unfathomably important and was not to be in anybody else's possession but his own; no human, no demon, and no angel. He had no idea what would happen to it after he threw it, but it had a better chance of being safe anywhere other than his own neck.

"Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit!" Wirt limped as fast as he could away from the demons overwhelming his home. He did not make it too far before a small necklace fell right in front of him. Instantly enticed by its pristine craftsmanship, and he knew pristine craftsmanship, he was forced to stop even though his very life was on the line. His nature took a hold of him and he grabbed the necklace and quickly stuffed it into a hidden slot inside his peg leg where he held all of his most valuable possessions. As he took his first step away, he felt a sharp pain in his back. He wanted to run, but he could not move. He looked down to see a sword coming out of his stomach and his blood flowing onto the ground. He could only utter two sentences before finally succumbing to the suddenly blissful darkness. "I'm sorry, Mother. I'm so sorry. . ."

The fate of Seram, or The Moo Moo Farm as it is known, has since been hidden from history. However, it is said that you can occasionally find a forgotten would-be-hero from the past drinking their terrors away and babbling on about a secret realm inhabited by so called "Hell Bovine."

Started to read, but the phrase "Vile of black ink", stopped me dead in my tracks.

Good catch, mate
I am surprised to see that a simple homonym made it past several proofreads! I hope none else made it past me. As the first person to respond that wasn't frightened by its length, I hope you will reconsider.

Started to read, but the phrase "Vile of black ink", stopped me dead in my tracks.

Good catch, mate
I am surprised to see that a simple homonym made it past several proofreads! I hope none else made it past me. As the first person to respond that wasn't frightened by its length, I hope you will reconsider.

Technically, vile is a homophone of vial. Homophone is when something sounds the same (you can remember that because phone is in it).

Started to read, but the phrase "Vile of black ink", stopped me dead in my tracks.

Good catch, mate
I am surprised to see that a simple homonym made it past several proofreads! I hope none else made it past me. As the first person to respond that wasn't frightened by its length, I hope you will reconsider.

Technically, vile is a homophone of vial. Homophone is when something sounds the same (you can remember that because phone is in it).

Hehehe... cheers again for the correction. I now see that I should have majored in English!